


By the way, what is Hosuh again?

by Clara_Parlato



Category: DanPlan
Genre: I Don't Even Know, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 17:00:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clara_Parlato/pseuds/Clara_Parlato
Summary: Or: “Stephen thinks Hosuh might not be human, but is too much of an airhead near said man to think about it properly.”





	By the way, what is Hosuh again?

By the way, _it makes no fucking sense._

No matter how he thinks about it, what angle he uses to approach it or which facts he uses to stitch it all together. It makes no sense. None. Nada.

And it’s driving him  _ insane. _

Not “Edgy Bitch” insane like the role he plays when the camera is on, but “Maybe My Friend-Slash-Crush Is A Supernatural Being And I Don’t Know How To Deal With It” insane.

Listen, Stephen is a sensible guy. He may be impulsive and maybe a bit too electric, but he has a good head on his shoulders. His brain cells work properly, his senses still kick and logic never left him and he doubts it ever will. He’s  _ not  _ losing his marbles over the fact Hosuh might be an angel. Or a mermaid. Or some nature spirit. No, he is approaching the subject with much calm and practicality as he’s capable of.

“Stephen, what are you doing?”

“I’m theorizing, Hosuh.”

“While laying on the grass in the middle of the park? Away from our group?”

Why had he agreed going to a picnic with the DanPlan group again?

Ah, yes, to keep an eye on the angel/mermaid/nymph he has a crush on.

_ Right. _

“Shhh, I’m thinking.” He opens his eyes just in time to see Hosuh stand against the pale sun of winter. It looks like a halo of light, reflecting on his hair and making it look like it’s made of strings of the purest silver. “Is your hair natural?”

“Is that what you’re theorizing about?” He smiles, that small yet extremely fond smile of his, the one that reaches his eyes and fills them with unashamed warmth. The one that makes Stephen’s besotted heart skip a beat or two.

_ Dammit,  _ he’s starting to sound poetic.

Hosuh sits near him, and Stephen can’t help but draw in his mind himself resting his head on Hosuh’s thighs, listening his soft voice saying words that held no significance in comparison to his soft fingers running through Stephen’s messy hair and the greyish blue stars that served as eyes staring at him, glowing in the same moonstruck way Stephen fights everyday to not make obvious.

_ Damnit,  _ he’s being poetic.

He blames Hosuh.

“No, I also think Daniel is a werewolf.” He doesn’t, but might as well go extravagant before he lets himself get caught even more in the web of his feelings.

“You just want an excuse to call him ‘mutt’.”

“Since when do I need an excuse to say the truth to Daniel?”

His companion laughs— _ giggles _ , he  _ giggles _ , and if you think it’s not more evidence he’s an angel/mermaid/nymph, you’re damn fucking wrong and need to rethink your life—and he lets his mouth form a smile, his very own smile for Hosuh and Hosuh only. Sometimes he thinks there’s no way the man doesn’t know of his feelings, for that particular smile screamed  _ “enamoured fool” _ —he’s starting to sound poetic again, isn’t he?—and only appeared to the silver haired angel/mermaid/nymph.

“He’s an alien, actually.” Stephen watches his friend’s mouth form the words, watches his eyes sparkle with mirth and something just  _ knowing _ , and he feels conflicted over drinking the image or interpreting the feelings the stars show him. He goes with none, playfully snickering.

“That would explain his weirdness.”

They laugh before falling in a comfortable silence. Stephen lets his thoughts drift freely, knowing he won’t be able to ponder on anything while his heart sang for the person sitting near him. So he just closes his eyes and lets everything but the presence of the one he liked wash away. He’s almost asleep when he hears something or someone move, and cautious hands raise his head just enough so it can rest on something much softer than the grass. The same hands caress his hair gently and he can’t help but melt a little. A sigh of profound fulfillment leaves him as his heart, instead of speeding up, beats slowly, as if being so filled with satisfied peace that it settled in a lullaby instead of it’s usual samba.

Opening his eyes, all he can see are the stars stolen from the sky.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“Me too.”

It feels too much of a dream, anyways.


End file.
